Dinner Party
by alice8therabbit
Summary: Gus throws a dinner party and Lassie tries to prove in front of everyone that Shawn is a fraud. 2 chapter fic.


**Hello there! Hi! Welcome**

**This is a little two part story I felt was too long to be a oneshot. It takes place around the time of my other fic, Pineapple Smoothies (check it out). It's around season 7-ish.**

**Anyway, tell me what you think. Feedback! I want. I want. I want! **

"Shawn? Shawn! What do you think you're doin'?" Gus shouted as he entered his living room. He'd walked in on his best friend cradling a plate of finger sandwiches and gulping them down at an inhuman pace.

"Well, Gus," Shawn began. "I am testing the food, surveying the area, checking for poison. Of course, there is the less likely but just as plausible possibility of little people stealing food and living under you floor boards." The psychic set down the small sandwiches and began picking at a bowl of assorted chips. "And, honestly buddy, just throwing these chips in here is just lazy hostmanship."

"That's not a word, Shawn. And, no, it's not. I just want to provide an assortment of snacks for my guests tonight."

"Dude, you invited, like, five people." Shawn rolled his eyes and moved onto to the taco dip. He stuck his finger right in and scooped some into his mouth. He cocked his head at the taste and shrugged.

As Shawn made a move to get some more, Gus crossed the room and grabbed his friend's wrist. "Shawn, you double dip and I swear, I will kill you myself. You know, that's not a bad idea. If I killed you, you wouldn't be here to solve your own murder. I'd get off scot free."

"Scot free? Who are you? My dad? And who is Scot? Scot Pilgrim? Scot Walker? Scot-ccccch tape?"

"Just keep your damn hands off my goods." Immediately after he spoke, the two paused, considering the awkward phrasing. "Ummmm, what I meant was—"

"Buddy, we've been here before. Let's just move on." Shawn turned his attention back to the snack table. He grabbed a small piece of cutlery and held it up. "What exactly is this? An ice cream scooper? If so, that makes no sense. You have invited neither Ben nor Jerry and need I mention the heinous exclusion of a Mr. Haagen-Dazs?"

Gus pulled the silverware from his hand and set it back down on the table, straightening it pretentiously. "It's for the melon. And Haagen-Dazs isn't a name. It's a word made up to sound Scandinavian to gullible fools, like you."

"Wait, why don't you just set out sliced melon? Or diced. Maybe even wedges."

"Shut up, Shawn. I need to make sure everything's ready. Everyone's gunna be here soon."

"Everything's fine, buddy."

"Players check twice, Shawn. Everybody knows that."

"Are you saying Santa Clause is a 'player'?"

Before Gus could respond, the doorbell rang. Both of the boys turned towards the door and Burton adjusted his blazer. "And so it begins."

"Dude," Shawn followed his friend through the house to the front door. "This is totally Red Dragon. You're Anthony Hopkins. No, wait, make it Hannibal. Wait. Am I Ray Liotta? Or Julianne Moore? Naw, I'd rather be Joide Foster. . . ."

"Why, hello, Chief. Please, come in. May I take your coat?" Gus greeted his first guest and took her black jacket.

"Well, thank you Mr. Guster. You have a lovely home." Vick smiled and looked around smiling. "Ah, Mr. Spencer. How are you?"

"I am sweet, sweet nice, Chief. Not gunna lie, there is some seriously good taco dip and it's a-that away." Shawn pointed back the way he and his friend had just came.

"Well, that's good to hear. And I am famished, if you don't mind. . ."

"By all means, please." Burton gestured in a very host-like fashion and invited her further into the house.

"Thank you, gentlemen." Vick smiled and went off to find the refreshments.

"Where's Juliet? You said she was coming, right?" Gus asked, glancing at his watch for the hundredth time.

"Her and Lassie are stuck in traffic. She texted me right before you walked in on me and sandwiches."

"I hope they're no too late. I got two chickens in the oven and they are on a schedule. I broke out my special apricot glaze recipe for tonight and you know if it sits too long, it gets gooey."

"I like it gooey."

"Glazes aren't meant to be gooey, Shawn. They're meant to be glazey."

"Now who's using fake words?"

"Shut up, Shawn." Gus glared at his companion as there came another knock on the door. Pulling open the door, the two came face to face with Woody.

"Hey guys! I brought the pot!" The coroner happily held up to huge Ziplocs of hemp.

"One moment please." Burton said, and slammed the door shut in Woody's face.

"Did you invite him? Shawn, I didn't invite him for a reason."

"Wasn't me! He must have found out from McNab or Vick or the one guy who does the filing. The one with the ponytail. Omigod! He kinda looks like Anthony Hopkins from the flashbacks in Red Dragon!"

"Shawn, focus. I have a crazy man with illegal substances standing on my porch and if you think I'm letting him into my home, you must be outta your damn mind."

"Gus. Don't be Edward Norton in Silence of the Lambs."

"He wasn't in Silence of Lambs. His character wasn't even in that movie."

"Oh, really? I've seen those movies, like, thirty times, you think I'd know that. Damn." Shawn said thoughtfully to himself.

"Focus, Shawn!"

The psychic pushed past the pharmaceutical salesman and opened the door to speak with the grinning coroner. "Heeeeey, Woody! My man! You got that sweet green. It's cinnamon-infused right? Because if Lassie doesn't have cinnamon-infused Mary Jane he gets a tummy ache."

"Oh! No! My dealer didn't—"

"GO! Get some and do not return until you have the a cinnamon-infused MJ joint the size of a ballpark bratwurst! And speaking of which, pick me up one of them, too. Extra everything but easy on the mayo!" The man shouted at a speechless Woody and finished with a loud, door slam. Shawn then turned back to his friend. "You're welcome."

"What happens when he comes back?"

"We will figure something else out. Maybe we can all hide. Like the ladies in that one scene of The Help hid from Jessica Chastain."

"It's on you. If he comes back, it's on you."

"You got it. It is on me like—"

"No more references. You're overdoing it."

"Am not!"

"Are too."

"Am not."

"Are too."

Another knock came at the door. "He's back already? Really!?" Gus pulled open the door and Shawn prepared to make up some other story but it wasn't necessary.

"Heeeeeeeeeeeeey, Spencer. Guster. How are you!?" A bizarrely perky voice sang. On the porch stood a grinning Carlton. He stepped inside without being asked and put a hand on Spencer's shoulder. "Tonight is going to be _so. Much. Fun._" With that, he pushed past the faux-psychic and went off toward the food area, unprompted.

"What's up with Lassie? He's so perky. Like a daisy." Shawn mused, making wavy, flower hand motions.

"Shawn, this is serious. The entire ride over here, Carlton was talking about some damming evidence he found on you."

Her boyfriend started laughing, "Aaah, come on, sweetheart. What could he get me on? Eating that chicken parmesan from his desk last Wednesday? Ha! Cuff me, I confess."

"That was _my_ chicken parmesan, Shawn. I left it on his desk to get a file from Fabio."

"Wait, is that the guy with the ponytail?"

"Yeah, Fabio. But, listen to me, both of you! Carlton seems to think that he has cold, hard evidence that could ruin Psych."

"Oh yeah, what? What's he got Jules?" Shawn asked, still chuckling.

"He says he can prove you're not psychic."

**Review, Follow, Favorite. Stick around for Part II (^~^) See you there!**


End file.
